Scars and Marks
by morninggloriious
Summary: Soulmate AU. Celaena doesn't have a soulmark, Dorian hears his everyday, and Chaol would rather not bother with any of this, thank you very much.
1. celaena dorian chaol

Celaena did not have a soulmark.

This wasn't unusual; many lived without one, and found a partner through other means. Some even argued against the soulmarks- after all, wasn't finding love for yourself more romantic than merely obeying the gods' orders? Star-crossed lovers and all that?

But Celaena had hoped for one. It would have been nice to have a friend to fight for, to have someone she knew would love her despite . . . everything. On the eve of her thirteenth birthday, when the mark, if you had one, appeared, she'd needed tea from the kitchens to sleep, her heart was pounding so badly.

But it didn't come.

Arobynn said it was for the best. No soulmate meant no weaknesses. Sam, in a rare moment of compassion, had told her he didn't have one either.

Ben hadn't said anything, just patted her shoulder and smiled in sympathy.

And Celaena Sardothien's body remained blank of words or symbols; scars took up the empty space.

.

Dorian Havilliard's soulmark had not been a surprise, with the _Your Highness?_ twirling along the smooth, unblemished skin of his left palm. With words so mundane, it would be hard to find his soulmate, but his mother, Queen Georgina, had been pleased.

Later, Dorian would realize his mother was so happy because his words were so easily manipulated; it would be easy for her to arrange to have a suitable bride say his words in court.

But these words were said to him so _often_ , he stopped noticing. After the first few months of his thirteenth year spent anxiously staring after every other servant or noble who came upon him, he took a deep breath, and put it out of mind.

When his soulmate appeared, Dorian would know. He had to. And his mate, whoever they were, would recognize his words, and surely tell him.

Surely.

.

His best friend, Chaol Westfall, did not have a soulmark at all.

But he made do. His duty was to Dorian, to his king. He told himself that did not need a soulmate to distract him.

A few years after his soulmark did _not_ appear, Chaol's body strong and hands calloused, he met Lithaen, and let himself fall in love with her.

It had been wonderful, being in love. Chaol had never realized how . . . powerful of an emotion it was. It could create beautiful things, keep him practically singing for days.

Until Lithaen left him, sleeping with Roland on the way, and he never realized how love could destroy as well.


	2. aedion lysandra

Aedion's soulmark was puzzling to say the least. _They're already stopping every carriage at the major intersections._

But he wore it proudly. The words curled around his right calf, outlining the muscles in his legs and already slightly warped by scars and burgeoning muscle.

The handwriting was elegant, maybe a lady's, though he wasn't sure why a courtier would tell him such an odd thing. Aedion wondered what situation they'd be in when they met.

The morning of his thirteenth birthday, he'd been awoken by Aelin, so excited and eager for his birthday that she'd nearly set his pillow on fire. Together, they had examined his arms and chest for the mark; Aelin had checked his back. Then his legs.

Little Aelin had read them aloud, sending goosebumps down the back of his neck. They had studied the words, Aedion lightly tracing them. "Maybe there will be a fugitive, and they'll be there to tell you what the city guard is doing to stop it," his cousin had suggested.

Aedion had agreed, though the idea didn't seem quite right. Then she'd left, summoned by the Lady Marion, leaving him to get dressed and perform his daily duties. That night, he had had a special dinner with the Galathyniuses and Aelin had given him a new book. Orlon had let him drink a half a glass of wine, the Sword of Orynth gleaming at his side. Evalin had hugged him with all the warmth of a mother and told him how proud his own mother would be if she could see him.

It was one of the last truly happy days he'd have for ten, long years.

.

Lysandra truly did not know if she had a soulmark or not.

That was the danger of shapeshifting; the mark only appeared in your true form- the one you were born in.

And Lysandra had long ago abandoned it in favor of ravens, cats, pretty beggar girls.

And had long ago been trapped in the body of one of those pretty beggar girls.

And she became _Lysandra_ , the Courtesan, favored by the _esteemed_ Madame Clarisse. She bickered with Celaena, flirted with everyone else. Her life became a whirl of parties and pretty clothes, laughing and drinking with the other girls, flirting and kissing the handsome debutantes that crossed her path.

Lysandra was no longer a wild thing. She did not stare longingly after the birds circling ahead, watch in envy as cats slipped around corners, the small wild things that had adapted to the city.

And she never, ever, sat in Rifthold's small shrine to Temis, goddess of wild things.

At least, not that Lysandra would ever admit.


	3. rowan

Rowan hadn't needed a tattoo to tell him who his mate was. He knew from the moment he spotted the slim, pretty girl on a bridge in Doranelle, a basket of flowers on her elbow.

He had swept through the crowd of Fae, of merchants selling their wares, of shoppers flitting from cart to cart. Those who saw him got the hell out of his way, and those who didn't were shoved unceremoniously out of Rowan's path.

Rowan had slowed as he approached her, waiting for her to notice him. And when she finally looked up, when her eyes met his. . . he could not describe the joy that shot throughout his entire being. Without breaking eye contact, he had jabbed his chin in the direction of the basket. "How much?"

The Fae female had stared up at him; she was a tiny little thing, all big brown eyes and tan skin, her too thin faced streaked with dirt and ash. She knew who he was, there was no way she couldn't recognize a Prince of Doranelle, one of Maeve's favored warriors. She did not stutter or cower, however, when she replied, "A copper, Prince."

The words written on his right thigh hummed.

He handed her a gold piece. "I'll take them all, then."

"I cannot accept that. Prince." The title was spoken as if she'd already forgotten it.

"You will." Giving her no time to argue, Rowan gently took the basket from her, and thrust the coin into her other hand. She let him. "What is your name?"

"Lyria."

.

She had died.

Rowan had held her cooling body in his arms, the scent of ash and blood lodged in his nose as ice crackled underneath his feet.

As he scented something else, a whiff of a new life, of joy and sacrifice and- death.

Rowan had not known. Too blind to have known, too foolish, too selfish.

He had felt the peculiar icy burn in his thigh as those words, those words he had cherished for a hundred years, vanished.

.

If new words sprouted in those decades before Rowan pressed Lyria's story into his skin appeared, he did not read them, merely letting the tale of loss and shame cover them up. Let the icy rage, the blood of Maeve's enemies, the hollow grief, the joy of destruction consume it.

 _Well met, my friend. Well met, indeed._


	4. sorscha

Sorscha's words, blooming on her left wrist, were flecked with small scars, working into the calluses on her hands; a healer's work was not kind. But the mark itself was precious to her, despite the damage. It was a promise of a family to come: _Follow me_.

The mark had blossomed only a few years after her flight from Fenharrow and the now razed village she had grown up in. By that time, Sorscha, by some grace of Sylba, had managed to apprentice herself to a castle healer. Hard work, but far more comfortable than many others displaced by Adarlan's conquest.

.

The prince was beautiful. And kind.

The few times she laid eyes on his shining figure, Sorscha blushed. And rubbed her mark. _Not for you_ , she reminded herself. _You have someone else_.

It did not keep her from falling desperately, hopelessly in love with the Crown Prince.


	5. lysandra ii celaena ii

Lysandra was expected to break records on her Bidding Night, and she surpassed those expectations and more. Men bid and bid and _bid_ , staring at her beautiful face, her gorgeous breasts, the lovely curves to her hips and thighs.

Arobynn's final price had been astronomical, outrageous, simply colossal.

It thrilled her. She knew that Celaena was gone, out of the picture, by some miracle. She had Arobynn all to herself. She had won. Lysandra was sad over Sam's death, but. What could she do.

But the months dragged on.

And she realized how lonely she was. Noticed the gaping hole in her where _purpose_ used to be.

One morning, when Wesley was escorting her back Clarisse's compound from the Keep, Lysandra asked to take a detour.

Temis was always happy to see her.

.

Gloriella.

The scent haunted her nose, conjuring images of- of-

Celaena had to face it.

Sam was dead.

She might as well have been too.

But she continued anyway, her pick axe _thudthudthuding_ against the rock of Endovier.

 _My name is Celaena Sardothien, and I will not be afraid._


	6. dorian ii

Dorian had not thought much of the assassin.

At first.

Worth keeping an eye on, to be sure; in the receiving room at Endovier, Sardothien reminded him unerringly of a viper, ready to strike. A cornered beast.

But in quiet moments, when she thought nobody was watching? When she only had eyes for the stars, or fallen deep into a book? She may have been Adarlan's Assassin, but she was no viper, no wild animal. She was a girl, with a sad past and a momentous task ahead of her.

She was his friend.

And Dorian could not help but love her.


	7. chaol ii sorscha ii

Chaol had never met anyone quite like Celaena Sardothien.

She was an assassin. One of the deadliest and most notorious. By all accounts, he shouldn't trust her.

Shouldn't let her around Dorian, his prince and best friend.

Shouldn't feel anything more than a wary distrust.

Shouldn't be her friend.

.

"Come quick!"

The page boy skidded to a halt in the doorway of Sorscha's workroom, and doubled over, panting. "Come quickly!" he repeated. "The prince and his Champion have need of you!"

With that, he took off again, and Sorscha barely had time to snatch up her healer's bag before charging after him.

She followed him up, up, up, through the warm healer's catacombs up into the chilly castle, sunlight flashing through the windows as they raced past. The temperature plunged even further as they entered the gardens, and Sorscha could see her breath misting in front of her.

She and the page came hurtling to a stop as they reached the veranda around that horrid clocktower.

No one even noticed their entrance; all eyes were focused on the huge body twitching on the ground, two guards gently tugging their Captain away from it. The king was shouting something, but Sorscha couldn't make it out, too absorbed in watching the prince, his Champion curled in his arms, babbling about something Sorscha didn't even begin to understand.

The woman -beautiful, even when bruised and bloody- quieted, and the prince kissed her forehead. He turned away from the reeking body on the flagstones, and stalked past Sorscha, still in cradling the Champion.

He only spared Sorscha one glance. "Follow me."

She stumbled after him, blood pounding in her head. _Follow me._

Sorscha followed the prince up through the castle and into a decadent suite of rooms; not the prince's, every healer knew where he lived.

 _Follow me follow me follow me_

She didn't dare say anything to him. Not now. Not when he was so focused on the beautiful girl he was holding.

Her hands shook, the mark throbbing.

She took a deep breath. And another.

There was work to do.


	8. dorian iii celaena iii chaol iii

Dorian took a deep breath. And let Celaena go.

.

Kissing Chaol was like coming home. It was pure and wonderful, loving him. Like what she'd had with Sam. Celaena loved being with him, loved their early morning runs, their late night conversations.

But Nehemia came before everyone. Before Chaol, before Dorian. Nehemia, with her love of her people, her determination to save Eyllwe. Her bravery.

She was everything Celaena could never be, and because of that, she was worth so much more. Deserved so much more.

And Celaena could not forgive. No matter how much she loved.

.

Celaena whirled on Dorian, slamming his head against the ancient stone wall of the catacombs. He crumpled.

She raced down the stairs, toward the portal, toward Chaol and Fleetfoot. She had to get them out, out, out, before the portal slammed closed and locked them in forever. Celaena lept through, saw Chaol, his sword snapped in two, saw Fleetfoot, the dog's teeth still bared though her leg was oozing blood, saw the creature. The otherworldly demon. To fight it, Celaena would need to become one herself.

So she did.

She felt the flash of pain, the ache as her ears changed from rounded to pointed, as her canines grew, as the mortal clumsiness fled her veins and was replaced by eternal, immortal grace of her Fae body.

The demon roared, made to attack- _no_.

.

Blue flames seared the air in front of the creature, sent it rolling away, though it was back on its feet within moments. Chaol could hardly process his thoughts as the Fae woman - _Celaena_ \- moved in front of him, roaring her inhuman battle cry.

 _Not human, not human, not human._

The demon lunged again, and more fire shoved it away. Again, it was on its feet, sinking back onto its haunches. Celaena bellowed again.

Except this time, more answered, from the fog surrounded their little clearing. More demons- Chaol was frozen, his feet stuck to the burning earth.

Celaena snarled at him, and Chaol was afraid, only for a moment, that she'd turn on him too- " _Run_."

Chaol scooped up Fleetfoot, and, the moment the creature was distracted by Celaena's flame, raced for the portal, the gravel crunching under his feet.

Chaol heard the sounds of battle through the portal as he landed back on the stone of the glass castle's catacombs. In his own world.

 _Thank the gods_.

Another roar, but this one was not human nor inhuman- the roar of cracking earth, of crumbling stone. Chaol peared through- and there was Celaena, wrenching the ancient sword out of the dirt. Her back was to him, the tunic half burned- and there, written on her back were words. Too small for him to read, but there all the same. Solid lines of ink on her back.

Then light flashed, and there was Celaena Sardothien, human again. The words gone.


	9. chaol iv aedion ii

The words had stuck in his throat.

Even as Celaena had told him everything- about her heritage, about what she had discovered in her late night wanderings, Chaol could not bring himself to tell her.

He had opened his mouth so many times, only to close it. Had hesitated when finally leaving that cursed bedroom where so much had happened. Had finally decided to tell her on the docks, but the words "I love you" had come out instead.

A final, selfish act.

As he mounted the steps back up to the castle, to investigate what she'd whispered in his year - a date, he knew, the day her parents had died - Chaol felt the guilt roiling in his stomach.

He had not told her that she had a soulmate. A soulmate whose words were written on the small of her Fae form's back.

.

Aedion Ashryver crumpled the letter in his fist, glaring at the campfire. Around him, his men - the Bane - made food, sharpened their blades, flirted with the camp followers. Stars winked over head. The Stag, the Lord of the North, showing the way home.

The soldier beside him glanced up, sensing Aedion's bad mood. "Something wrong, General?"

Aedion watched the firelight glint off the polished black ring on his finger - the one he'd had made after the King had given him one just like it. "He's summoning me back to Rifthold."

"Again?"

Aedion nodded. "I have to go this time, though."

He couldn't use the weather as an excuse anymore, not as the snow finally melted from the mountains. And he could tell that the King was getting impatient.

He stood up. Best get this over with, then. "I'll leave at daybreak tomorrow. Tell the others. They're to wait for my signal to follow."

"Yes, Sir!"

Aedion Ashryver stalked back to his tent. Wolf pelt over his shoulders. The Sword of Orynth at his side.

Tomorrow, he'd ride. And face the man who had destroyed everything Aedion held dear.


	10. rowan ii sorscha iii

Rowan bared his teeth at the princess, who only glared back, unrepentant. Her hair, pulled into a plait, hung over one shoulder as she shivered in the morning chill, even with the sunshine moving across the stones of Mala's ancient temple.

Good.

"Shift."

"No."

Rowan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and glowered at her. _Come on, you stupid girl._

She raised an eyebrow. _You'll have to do better than that._

 _Humor me._

An evil little smile flickered onto her face, and Rowan knew today wasn't the day. He almost sighed. Maeve's task of training the princess was getting rather tiresome, and he was too tired to really get into it with her today.

He stood up, and made to go back to Mistward. "Go chop wood then."

She snarled, and, with his back to her, he allowed himself a smirk. He had made her chop wood yesterday, too.

"If you're going to be this pissed off at the whole damn world," he called over his shoulder, "And waste my time by not shifting, then you might as well do something useful."

.

Sorscha gazed at the spot where the prince had been, where he had sat in her workroom and asked her questions.

It almost felt like a dream. Never before had he looked at her with such intensity, such interest.

He didn't seem to know, though. Didn't seem to realize that those words on his hand, the hand she had bound with bandages and smothered in salve, were her words.

It made sense, she supposed. A prince would be asked that question - not even a question, just a title said in an inquisitive manner - everyday. Of course he wouldn't look around at every single servant who asked it.

It still hurt, though. Just a little. Like Sorscha's heart had reached for a rose, and had been beaten back by its thorns.

Prince Dorian was quite a beautiful rose, though.


	11. lysandra iii

Lysandra paced restlessly around her room, listening the rain pattering against the room's only window. Wesley's letter to Celaena Sardothien rustled in her pocket- she carried it everywhere, everywhere. She did not know if Celaena was alive or dead, free or enslaved, but. Just in case.

Lysandra would be ready when the time came.

The weather had been like this for days, dark and gloomy. The rain - the splashing water making it impossible to roam the little garden Clarisse kept, the shadowed sky blotting out the sunlight - always made Lysandra tense. So tense that she'd snapped at Clarisse at breakfast this morning, a stupid thing to do, even if she was close to paying off her debts. If she still had-

But no. It was all gone. Every last drop of it.

There was a clattering sound on the landing outside her door, and Lysandra paused in her patrol of the room. A beat of quiet, and then the door banged open so suddenly that Lysandra almost jumped.

Clarisse strode in, and Lysandra dipped into an elegant curtsy, letting the madame take up the room. Behind her followed one of the few guards that kept watch over the courtesan's compound, making sure no one got in.

Or out. Lysandra had taken a few bruises from him herself, the times she had tried to run away as a child. In his arms shivered a child, a lovely little girl with glossy, red-gold hair and huge eyes that brimmed with tears.

Oh. Oh gods. Lysandra's heart broke at the sight of her.

Clarisse was speaking, her imperious tone making it clear that there would be no arguments. "This is Evangeline. You are to train her as an acolyte. You are responsible for her welfare and her education. She is to begin tonight. Do you understand?"

Lysandra did understand. She understood too well what had to be done. She dipped her head low, murmuring a quiet, "Yes, mistress," but not before letting the woman see the angry flash in her eyes.

"Good."

As Clarissa and the guard left, the little girl, Evangeline, trembled on the carpet. Lysandra crossed the room to her, kneeling before her and taking her up in her arms. Evangeline stood stiffly for a moment before melting into the embrace. Lysandra scooped her up and set her down in front of the fireplace, bending down to light the logs and get some warmth into the child's stone cold fingers. After a moment's thought, she crossed the room to the sewing basket beside the bed and retrieved the sharp scissors, placing the blades into the burgeoning flames.

Lysandra settled down beside her, letting the little girl climb, shuddering, into her lap. Even as Evangeline warmed her hands by the fire, tears began to slip out of those beautiful citrine eyes.

Yes. Lysandra knew what she had to do.


	12. aedion iii dorian iv

Aedion despised the Capital.

Rifthold was a prison of excess, a monument to the subjugation of Erilea. Every courtier was a reminder of their frivolity, every slave a symbol of the fall of Terrasen and the other Erilean kingdoms.

The King watched him like Aedion was a particularly mangy dog, interesting but unworthy of any real attention. The Prince took him a little bit more seriously, but Aedion would never forgive him.

Aelin had tried to be his friend, and he had refused her.

Aedion took a swig from his flask as he slipped out the back door of the inn, the sounds of merriment and chatter muffled as the door swung silently shut behind him. He made his way through the familiar dark, his Fae senses bringing the world into better focus than any mortal eyes, and set out for the meeting point.

Aedion needed to speak with what was left of Terrasen's - of _her -_ court.

.

The healing woman was beautiful.

Dorian watched Sorscha as she fiddled with the small glass pots of ointment and bandages she'd brought in her basket. Not looking at him, she examined his hand quickly and began the process of repairing it.

If Celaena or Chaol were here, they would ask how he managed to earn such a petty injury, but Sorscha merely did her work in silence. A silence that, to Dorian, seemed to stretch on as his good hand fidgeted and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from her.

"Aren't you going to ask how it happened?" he blurted out, suddenly unable to bear it any longer.

Her reply was cool, professional. "It's not my place to ask- and unless it's relevant to the injury, it's nothing I need to know."

She applied a salve that tingled against the wound and wrapped the bandage 'round, tying it off with expert hands. As she finished, Dorian asked, "Where are you from?"

A pause.

"Fenharrow."

"Where in Fenharrow?"

Another cool, to-the-point answer. Dorian continued to pry, asking her questions; it didn't take long to crack the cool exterior.

Dorian hissed slightly as she applied another stinging salve to his lips, but another part of him -the part that had been carefully quiet since Celaena- enjoying the intimacy as she studied his lips, her cheeks slightly flushed from his little interrogation.

He liked her, Dorian decided. He liked this healing woman with her clean, capable fingers.

"Sorscha?"


End file.
